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really would’ve preferred to go home, but Finn was definitely too messy to be left untended.
    â€œSo she sits down and asks me first if I remember that this was just supposed to be a casual fling, no strings. And I say yes. And she says, ‘So why are you calling me five times a night?’ I didn’t quite know what to say. It’s just that so many things make me think of her, like I was watching TV and I saw this show on penguins and she likes penguins so I had to call her. And then I was making a cup of tea and I noticed that we both like the same kind of peppermint tea and that’s cosmic so I called her . . . I know, in retrospect it was ridiculous. I was in way in over my head and I didn’t even know it.”
    I went up to the counter and got us each another beer. The bartender winked at me.
    â€œYou’re a peach. Thanks for the beer . . . So the funny thing is I was thinkin’ I was all casual like, just calling her a few times, but otherwise restraining myself, not getting too heavy, too intense. I limited myself to only two telephone calls a day. And I kept saying to myself: I’m fine. I can handle this. I’m cool. And so today after she told me that we had to stop hanging out I thought again: I’m fine. All the way out the door, I kept thinking how fine I was, I said goodbye, I paid the bill, I left Pizza Hut. I got in my car and I’m driving home down 99th Street, past Barb and Ernie’s—you know the German restaurant where the guy wears lederhosen? And just then I vomited down the side of my leg. I vomited! I was surprised as hell because hey: I’m fine . I’m great . What am I doing puking on my leg? So I manage to pull into a bus stop and open the door, and I puke some more in the gutter! And so . . .”
    My stomach heaved. “Oh God, it’s not parmesan, it’s you! I think maybe you should go put some more soap on that.”
    Finn went to the men’s room armed with Lysol from the bartender. I could feel my eyes starting to tear up, but I had no idea why.
    He came out of the bathroom, smelling antiseptic. He was smiling, repeating to himself and me: “I’m fine, really, I’m fine.”
    â€œOkay, Finn, listen to me. You are not fine now, but you are going to be fine. Get yourself some supplies. How about some Häagen-Dazs ice cream, pizza, whatever . . . Go home and listen to eight sad songs twice at least—songs like Costello’s ‘I Want You,’ and Brel’s ‘Ne me Quittes Pas’; listen to Townes’ Van Zandt, Nick Drake, whatever you gotta do—and then have a hot bath and cry yourself to sleep. The guys at Blackbyrd Myoozik shop coached me on The Listening Cure and gave me the Van Zandt tip and it’s true, he’s super sad.
    â€œYou’ll wake up feeling purged. Drink lots of water, other­wise you’re gonna get dehydrated. The night after that read some Sylvia Plath, then watch a couple of wrist-slashers like Shadowlands , Steel Magnolias , The Champ , and cry some more. Movies with lots of bereavement. Call me anytime. The main thing is to get it out of your system, cry it out. Think: Operation Purge. Then watch something like The Commitments to reboot yourself.”
    â€œDon’t you think there’s any hope?”
    â€œI wish there was, Finn. I’m trying to be honest. Go home. Do what I say. Call me if you need me. Anytime.”
    Because I’d seen so many of Isobel’s victims in Finn’s state, her mankilling had become a sad fact of the universe, like acid rain, so I couldn’t really offer much in the way of solace or hope for reconciliation. I decided to hope that he was fine enough for me to leave him by himself, but I still felt guilty. I should’ve given him a heads-up ages ago. I should’ve, but I wanted the Dan Bern thing to happen. I sucked.
    Later that night, in